


cripples, bastards, and broken wings

by Fanonymous



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Vikings (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), F/M, I make my own mish mash canon, Non-sexual cuddling, Sharing a Bed, back at it again with the clownery, i play fast and loose with mythology, just go with it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:49:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28521180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fanonymous/pseuds/Fanonymous
Summary: Joffrey is an idiot.Ivar is curious about the blood-haired girl with an icy rage in her eyes and a pleasant smile on her lips. It was easy enough to flatter her previous captor into letting her go, but the question of what to do with her never crosses his mind.Sansa is surrounded by strange people. This crippled new king of Kattegat is unlikely to set her free, but he won't kill her either. Her name offers her no protection, but it doesn't put a target on her back like it did in Kings Landing either. Sansa's tired of playing the little bird, and she doubts it would get her far in this new society either.(Ivar as new King of Kattegat and Sansa fresh from being a Kings Landing captive. Marriage to Tyrion never happened. Robb and Cat still live, just imagine the war is very slow-paced. Aged up characters)
Relationships: Ivar (Vikings)/Sansa Stark
Comments: 23
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

_ GARDENS, RED KEEP _

Margaery sits by the thick rails of the gardens overlooking the sea. The breeze blows cool on her face and the air is perfumed richly by the flowers around them.

Her grandmother picks at a tray of fruit on the table beside her while Margaery embroiders into some scrap fabric. This little design will need to be burnt or hidden away anyway, for her eyes only.

“Your betrothed is a dumber twat than I realized.” Olenna mumbles into a fig.

Margaery shakes her head and gestures for the bard to sing and play louder. If Margaery can hear her grandmother, others may as well, and they cannot have that.

A ship sails slowly along the horizon and Margaery stops her embroidery to watch. The ship that carried Sansa away was much faster than that, maybe twice that speed.

Margaery remembers their farewell at the docks like it was yesterday. Wait, it was only yesterday. It all happened so fast. That morning, they were still arm-in-arm in the garden and by that afternoon, Sansa was on a ship with a new captor already.

_“Margaery, please help me.” She begged, as if there was anything Margaery could have done even if she wanted to._

_Sansa was close to tears, but she’d had practice in not letting them fall. Margaery gives her friend a sad smile and leans in to kiss her cheeks one last time, subtly brushing a thumb under her eye with such tenderness._

_“I’m sorry, sweet girl. I truly am.” She whispers, handing Sansa over to the man giving her away like cattle, nameless cattle as if she were some cleaning maid’s daughter and not a Stark._

_Sansa countenance shifts to carefully concealed ice and she falls back on her courtesies. Joffrey can taunt and tease her as much as he wants, she has learned to let his words blow like wind through her ears._

_She curtsies one last time towards the assembly, Lord Tywin tellingly missing. Surely, he would not let it happen if he were. Sansa walks the docks like the steps to the noose and steps into the boat which will carry her to a new cage._

Margaery snaps out of her musings when Olenna loudly gets up. She stands to follow her grandmother, but the old woman gestures her to sit back down.

“Oh, do quit your racket, Butterbumps.” She orders. The bard immediately stops and starts shaking in his boots. “Come along, I have need of your grating voice elsewhere.”

Margaery shakes her head and smiles at Olenna’s snappy and gruff nature, not at all helped by all the plan’s that have been upset by Joffrey’s stupidity.

As Margaery watches another ship float by, she wonders at the feeling of sadness and emptiness that lingers in her chest. Sansa Stark was a sweet girl and she would have made a good sister perhaps, but nothing can get in the way of Margaery’s pursuit of the crown, right?

She looks down at her little wolf design, wearing a crown of golden Highgarden roses. The wolf looks less like it is snarling and more like it is happy, and the roses bloom beautifully on its head.

_‘Oh, but they do look so good together.’_

_ SMALL COUNCIL CHAMBERS _

Lord Tywin Lannister sits at the head of the small council table seriously considering kinslaying as a way to resolve the tremendous headache that throbs behind his eyes. Cersei watches her father, anticipating the explosion that is sure to come whenever he gets into one of his moods.

The headache in question paces by the door like a scolded child, for once reading the room correctly and fearing his grandfather’s reaction. His earlier arrogance and sureness leave him and when he opens his mouth to explain his actions and apologize, his mother shakes her head frantically.

Tyrion watches all this with a goblet of wine in his hand, sipping slowly to savour its aroma and the tension in the room.

“You,” Tywin starts, looking up from the table and clenching his hand into a fist to keep from throwing something at his daughter’s idiot offspring. “Do you realize just what you have done?”

“Grandfather, I-“ Joffrey tries to explain, but is interrupted.

“I doubt you understand the gravity of the situation you’ve put us in, you absolute fool!” Tywin stands and Joffrey shrinks back further from the table.

Tyrion’s eyes swing back and forth from every participant, wanting to capture each scene perfectly to tide him over sadder times.

“Sansa Stark was the key to the North!” Tywin punches his fist onto the table. “And you just gave her away to a bunch of savages?!”

Cersei, against her better judgement tries to intercede on her son’s behalf. “Father, we can simply kill the remaining Starks and-

Tywin rounds on his daughter. “And what?! Hmm? We kill the Starks and then what? My daughter thinks she’s so clever, but she fails to see anything past the walls of her own castle.”

Tywin sits back down. “All the Starks needed to die either way, daughter-of-mine. What we needed the Stark girl for was her name, her blood, to cement our claim to that region for generations to come!”

“Now, we have no choice but to fully subdue the North for decades using military force before we can attempt to establish ourselves there. All because of your stupid spawn who could not hold his tongue nor his impulses!” He explodes.

“You,” Tywin points to Joffrey. “will make yourself scarce and unheard. Take a page from the Stark girl’s book and live a life as unnoticed as possible, because the next time I hear about you deciding something without my prior approval, I will evacuate this city of my men and let the Starks have you.”

Joffrey swallows the lump in his throat and opens his mouth to protest. “I am the king here, my Lord Hand. Not you.”

Tywin ignores him but his insipid mother gives him a warning look. Joffrey refuses to be ignored like this. “I. Am. King. Here!”

Tywin turns back to him, seething. “You are a dunce and a coward! You and your mother don’t deserve the Lannister name!”

“Guards!” Tywin gestures to the ones posted by the door. Kingsguards but they will do his bidding just as well. “Take his Highness into his rooms so that he may reflect on the gravity of his mistakes and pray for my forgiveness.”

They crowd the shouting young man out of the room. The Old Lion’s orders supersede any of Joffrey’s shouted ones.

The door shuts with finality and Tywin turns to his daughter. “We need to cement our alliance to the Tyrells post-haste.”

Cersei tries to get a word in, knowing what her father is talking about. “Father, please-“

Tywin shakes his head and stands to his full height. “I will not hear a word of it. Your marriage to Loras Tyrell will be moved to the next fortnight. There will be no need to make a large celebration out of it. Now, get out of my sight and remind Jaime to see me tomorrow morning for his relinquishment of his vows.”

Tyrion watches his older witch of a sister stomp out of the room as she used to when they were children. His father truly must not see the uncanny resemblance between father and daughter. If Cersei and Jaime switched places, his father would have far less worries or stressors.

Tywin pushes away from the table and goes to his writing desk to send word to his vassals and commanders about a change of tactics on the battlefield.

Tyrion hops down from his seat after finishing his drink and leaving the emptied goblet on the table. He skips out of the room, extremely pleased and on the way to Shae, waiting for him in his apartments.

_My Lady Stark, it seems you’ve survived us after all._

_ KATTEGAT _

Sansa’s new prison is nothing she’s used to. The docks are overcrowded with people and there is no assembly to welcome their party. Instead, all these armed men and women walk around with their own purpose.

The pensive and silent man that Joffrey handed her over to hasn’t spoken to her at all. His legs look painfully twisted and Sansa does her best not to stare. His eyes glow strangely blue in the dark and though he stares, he never speaks to her or addresses her. The huge, scarred, white-haired man that does speak to him addresses him as Lord Ivar.

The women here wear dresses, breeches and everything in between. That is strange in and off itself, but even stranger is the fact that the men here wear skirts as well; not long ones that would like the robes Varys would wear, but ones almost to the knee.

Sansa holds her head high. Joffrey may have passed her on to these strange people with nary a thought, but Sansa is a Stark and no pain nor torture can take that away from her.

The White-Haired man that reminds her of a far less gentle Sandor (if that word could ever be used to describe the scarred man) drags her through the streets. His grip on her upper arm is bruising iron and Sansa stumbles through the mud multiple times.

They reach a large hall and the doors open to welcome them inside. A throne sits directly across the doors, tables and benches are pushed to the side and out of the way. They walk to the unoccupied throne and the man sitting at its steps stands to greet them.

“Brother!” Hvitserk calls. “Back so soon?”

Ivar walks forward, relying heavily on his crutch. “Don’t sound too disappointed, Hvitserk. I’ll die soon enough.”

Hvitserk snaps his fingers jokingly and walks to meet them closer to the throne. Ivar waves his guards away and White-Hair shoves their newest guest forward. She stumbles but doesn’t fall.

Sansa keeps her head bowed and observes them from the peripheries of her vision. Lord Ivar is intimidating for all that he walks with a crutch. He’s taller than she is even when he’s slouched, which he usually is.

Everyone here is taller than she is, and to be completely honest, Sansa isn’t used to that.

“Who is this?” Hvitserk asks his brother offhandedly. Ivar wasn’t the brother that was known for bringing home women, and that’s putting it very generously.

Ivar looks to the little blood-haired girl and lets the room stew in silence while he decides her purpose here.

The girl couldn’t be tenser if she tried. Ivar commends her. She hasn’t cried or screamed in fear, not since he’s met her. She’s cold, but she’d respond when that bitch king spoke to her, only ever what he wanted to hear.

“A prize.” Ivar settles on. It’s true enough, though they did little but fool a child into giving her up.

Hvitserk hums thoughtfully and circles her critically. “A slave then?”

Ivar notices what Hvitserk does not; the subtle clenching of her hands at the front, her minutes flinch.

She looks up at them from beneath her lashes and there is such a familiar rage in her eyes that makes Ivar pause.

Ivar first thought of making this girl a sacrifice upon his ascension to the throne, but now he hesitates. “Your name, girl?”

She juts her chin out and with a resigned sigh answers. “Sansa... of House Stark.”

Her reticence to answer a simple question is not lost on either brother. Hvitserk probes and prods as he usually does. “Is that name supposed to mean something?”

Sansa’s face goes through a quick cycle of emotions: shock, relief, resignation, fear, before going back to its blank mask. Ivar walks over to his throne, the throne of his father, and his mother. He seats himself with much difficulty, today is not exactly a good day for his bones but needs must.

Hvitserk looks at him questioningly and nudges his head towards the girl. Ivar rests his head on his chin and rolls his eyes. “What I plan for her is of no concern of yours, brother. No need to worry.”

The girl stands frozen in the middle of the hall and Ivar beckons her forward with his free hand. She glides toward him like a wraith, keeping her eyes on the floor. Once she stands in front of him, he takes her hand, noting how they tremble and lose all colour.

_She’s afraid of him, just like everyone else._

The thought rankles him for some reason. Ivar tugs her hand down with a command. “Sit.”

The hand he holds tenses. Sansa hates this. Joffrey gave her away for slaughter or slavery to a people who no nothing of her family and now this new captor treats her like a dog; commanding her to come and sit at his feet. What will it be next? Will she be forced to eat off the floor and beg for scraps?

Sansa would rather die than dishonour herself or her house so. She is no Clegane, no dog or hound to be subservient to a master.

House Stark is of the wolf, and her new captor will learn that before she dies here in this strange and savage land.

_ KATTEGAT- NIGHT _

Sansa was surprised to find that the royal apartments (though apartments is a generous word) lay just behind the throne. Separated from the rest of the hall only by large nets that provide little privacy, not even the illusion of it.

It is there that Sansa is seen to now. They dress her in a thin shift, covered by a soft and warm blue robe, fastened with a brooch made of the gaudiest and most offensively large ruby she’s ever seen outside of the royal vaults. Sansa is allowed to keep her simple braid, dragonfly necklace, and old riding boots.

The slippers she wore in Kings Landing have been taken away by one of the attendants. Sansa doesn’t want them back, they pinched something fierce and wouldn’t keep the mud and chill off her feet on the best of days.

Her riding boots don’t match the rest of her clothing, but they are made of a good material and Sansa had never really worn them enough to wear them out.

Past the netting partition, Sansa can hear the noise of a crowd and the crackle of a fire. People here seem happy enough, though the unmistakable sound of blows to the body make Sansa flinch.

Sansa tries to be brave, like a lady from a song. She stands and peeks through the netting. Everyone is distracted by the wrestling match in the middle of the room. Her captor sits on his throne, lost in conversation with a short man wearing a cute little braid on the back of his head.

She’ll take her chances where she can. Sansa is sick of watching and waiting like she did in Joffrey’s court. Things are more dire than ever in this strange land, and her chances of survival dwindle. Joffrey was a fool, but a predictable one. Her new captor has clever, glowing blue eyes, and she doubts indecision is one of his traits.

Sansa will come to terms with her death when it finds her, but not without taking a chance to live first.

Sansa inches past the netting, doing her best to blend into the background and make as little noise as possible. She makes it all the way past the doors and breathes in the cool night air in relief.

She has no chances on a boat, but the woods, or the mountains look like the ones from home. She curses herself for not being more like Arya in this instance. What little she remembers will have to do.

“And where is my little prize of to, hm?”

Sansa freezes. She can actually feel the blood drain from her face.

“My-my Lord Ivar-“

She can hear him shuffling forward on his cane before he stands beside her, looking out into the night with her.

“You wouldn’t last a day, little prize.” He begins and Sansa can’t help but bristle at his condescending tone. “The seas and woods are cruel. They will not take mercy on a lost girl, not even one so precious as you.”

He walks to stand in front of her. Sansa closes her eyes and bows her head, refusing to look at him.

Ivar tsks and lifts her head up with a crooked finger under her chin. Still, her eyes remain closed.

“There is nothing to fear here, Sansa. I will protect you.”

Her eyes open and there it is again, that familiar icy rage that bites him like steel. “Of course, my Lord. You are as kind and generous as your predecessor, the Good King Joffrey.”

Sansa turns away and heads back inside. She has been foolish, impulsive. She dreads the repercussions of her actions, but she does not regret them. She has been a captive for several years now, and though she’d dearly like to survive and make it home, she knows it is an impossibility at this point.

Sansa nibbles on some bread. Everything else at the tables has either been eaten of and discarded or looks completely alien to her. There is sweet ale, and though it is no wine, Sansa swallows as much of it as she can.

Groups of people exit, but many more simply fall asleep where they are sat. Hvitserk and the man with the short braid among their number. She can no longer see Ivar, and heads back to the rooms in the back of the hall to retire.

Ivar sits on the bed, working his leg braces off when Sansa enters. Her slow and less graceful gait is telling, along with the cup that swishes full to the brim of golden honey ale she carries in.

She’s drunk.

She marches as if to her execution to the other side of the bed and Ivar turns to watch this strange woman. Sansa chugs down the rest of drink for courage, but her hands still tremble in fear. She refuses to cry in front of this man. His gaze is a heavy and curious thing, and it won't leave her be.

Sansa takes a deep and shuddering breath before reaching up to the brooch to remove her outer robes. She keeps her eyes shut and faces away from him as she brings one strap of her shift down her shoulder.

Ivar reaches out to stay her hand and she gasps at the contact. Her eyes open in fear.

Ivar simply coughs into his other hand and looks pointedly away as he lifts the strap back up her shoulder.

“There’s no need for that, little prize. Go to sleep.” He says, patting her shoulder for good measure.

Ivar turns back around and lifts his legs back on the bed, turning away from her as his head hits the pillow.

Sansa will not look a gift horse in the mouth and immediately turns the other way, covering herself up completely in the furs.

A good foot-and-a-half of bed lies between them and they each fall into a fitful and restless sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

_ KATTEGAT- MORNING _

There is a warm body pressed up against Sansa’s back. She freezes where she lays, and clenches her eyes shut. The scream that Sansa wants to free gets stuck in her throat and echoes in her head instead.

Mercifully, last night was uneventful and though her sleep was fitful, it was a welcome respite to her reality. If it weren’t for the mysterious presence behind her, Sansa would be happy to keep sleeping and stay in bed.

Ivar wakes pleasantly. His sleep was not restful by any definition of the word, but a pair of arms cradles his middle from behind. Strange that his newest prize has warmed to him so quickly after her frigid countenance yesterday. Ivar snuggles backwards and grasps the hands around his waist, surprised at the callouses and scars he finds.

He remembers her trembling hands from escorting her from her Kings Landing. Her palms were smooth and cold as porcelain while the tips of her fingers sported small callouses. Sigurd had those same callouses from playing on his oud so much.

Ivar opens his eyes and looks down and yes those are definitely a man’s arms around his waist.

He shoots up wide awake and looks behind him to see Hvitserk. “Get off of me!”

Hvitserk props his head on his fist and smirks at his brother, fiddling with a knife in his other hand. “Good morning, brother.” He sneers it more than he speaks it. Hvitserk isn’t soon to forget all of Ivar’s threats on his life, nor Ubbe’s surprising mercy towards him on the battlefield.

The irony is not lost on him. Threatened by the brother he chose and spared by the brother he abandoned. A day hasn’t gone by that he hasn’t second guessed his decision since he jumped ship. Ivar was right about that.

“Get out!” Ivar yells, startling Sansa who covers herself near completely with the furs.

Hvitserk rolls his eyes. Ivar is unarmed and though that doesn’t mean he is no longer a threat, it negates any attempt he might make in his life. “I thought it was time for our lovebirds to wake, hm. It’s mid-morning and King Harald wants to speak to us. Uncle Rollo’s already left; you took so long.”

Hvitserk jumps up and surveys the bed once again. “There’s space enough for a third person with the distance between you two, so where’s the lucky man, hm?”

Sansa blushes at the implication, but Ivar simply turns away to put on his leg braces. Hvitserk sweeps past the netting at the front of the room and Ivar hurries to catch up to him. He leaves no words or warnings to the little prize still laying in his bed.

Sansa flops back gracelessly onto the pillows. She has nothing to do in this strange place but test her boundaries and explore her new cage. She dresses slowly, loathe to go without her normal skirts and dresses and feeling terribly exposed.

At least she still has her shoes. The shoes she’s seen most people wear are little less than canvas covers for feet and do nothing to stave away the cold, and wet mud that make up the streets of this place.

She peeks out from the netting that make up the doors of the room. Lords Ivar, Hvitserk, and the man they must call King Harald sit to one darkened corner of the hall. Sansa can slip by them if she simply sticks to the other side and the shadows that the bright fire casts.

The exit looks well-guarded but the men stationed there only spare her a glance before they look the other way.

Sansa explores away from the sea. Further and further along she sees long houses but they look mostly empty. Tall battlements enclose the town, but the guard there is asleep at her post so Sansa simply walks on.

Sansa walks past farmlands and animal pens, letting her feet wander onward until she finds herself at the mouth of a foggy and dark forest. It reminds her of the wolfswood back home. Back then, she’d never venture into it, but now, she’ll take any reminder of home she can get.

It's silent. No birdsong or small steps to indicate any life.

Sansa walks forward. The trees are tall here, not quite the firs that dominated the North, but tall and whose wide-reaching canopies stretch further than Sansa can see. It is a dramatic change of lighting. The forest floor is littered with decaying leaves and moss, surprisingly solid, but also very slippery.

She makes her way carefully through the woods, making sure to keep an eye on her path back just in case. Every sound she makes echoes in this silent place, so she’s caught completely off guard by the twig snapping a few yards behind her.

She spins on her heel, looking into the bushes for a sign of someone following her. She almost looks past it, but Sansa spots the white hair and fierce braids of Lord Ivar’s guard, WhiteHair. The one who pushed her around and drags her places. He has an arrow trained on her from the foliage he hides in.

Sansa bolts, running left and right and behind trees to make a harder target.

Is this why they simply let her leave, so they could hunt her in the woods for sport?

No wonder no sign of game was in these woods.

This place is for hunting people.

The footsteps follow her through the woods and Sansa’s heart beats along with her footfalls. Very breath burns as it enters her lungs and the sting of the tears she keeps at bay does nothing to clear her head. Sansa spots a small opening in the mountainside and heads that way.

She pushes herself for one more boost of speed to make sure her pursuer doesn’t see where she goes and slides into the cave.

It’s dark and smells worse than the Fleabottom markets on a bad day. The rocks below her are sharp and dig into her legs but Sansa won’t move. She keeps her hands clasped over her mouth while the tears of adrenaline and fear create steady tracks down her face.

_Oh gods, Oh gods. Please don’t let him find me. Please, please._

She can hear his heavy footsteps get closer to her hiding spot. Her eyes shut in trepidation. The lack of sight hones her hearing, and she can hear the quick footfalls of something else waiting her up there. It growls.

_Oh gods, he has a hunting dog._

Sansa takes a shaky fortifying breath. If she must die here, then she will not go down without a fight. She prays she can be brave like Robb, and Arya now as she picks blindly on the ground for a sharp rock, anything she can use to defend herself.

Her gentle searching disrupts a pile of rocks and some of it tumbles down and into the sliver of light that makes its way through the entrance. They fall in hollow notes and Sansa sees it. They’re not rocks at all, they’re bone.

She’s fallen into a mass grave.

A low snarl makes itself known from outside the cave and shortly after a man’s surprised yell does as well.

The snarls are now accompanied by sounds of ripping flesh and screams of pain.

_If a trained man didn’t stand a chance, what chance do I have?_

Still, Sansa grips the long shard of bone in her hand as the sounds stop abruptly. The animal leaves and Sansa takes a chance to peek out of the cave.

The sight in front of her is enough to make her retch. The man’s hair is splattered completely in blood and what little is left of his arm still twitches as it holds the bow.

She climbs out, looking around for whatever did this. She kneels by his side and takes the arm ring that every armed person wears as well. It’s heavy and still warm and slick with blood.

A warm breath ruffles her hair and Sansa freezes. The bone she clutches in her hand is forgotten in fear and Sansa clenches her eyes shut. It circles her and stands right in front of her. Curious about the behaviour, Sansa forces her eyes open.

Clear blue meets familiarly unfamiliar gold.

_ IVAR _

Harald is silent as Hvitserk lists down the demands that Rollo made of them. It is a steep price for a throne. Ivar contemplates whether it was worth it as he enumerates hefty price after price after price.

They would not be able to meet those demands, not without their stronghold in York expanding further. Ivar mulls over his choices on who to send to lead their settlement. Hvitserk would sooner betray and overthrow him than help and Harald is too ambitious, and not their blood besides.

The gathering lapses into silence as Harald sips slowly at his cup of ale and Hvitserk chugs deeply from his own flagon. Sansa exits the rooms behind them, staying as far away from their party as possible. He signals White Hair from behind him as she exits the Great Hall.

“Follow her. Make sure she doesn’t get herself killed.” He orders. Harald pays him no mind but Hvitserk looks up from his drink.

“Yes, my Lord Ivar.” White Hair replies.

“Good man.” Ivar murmurs, watching as his general follows swiftly and silently behind.

Hvitserk sighs beside him. “Is your new slave to your liking then?” he asks cheekily.

Ivar doesn’t do him the honour of meeting his eyes. Instead, he takes a slow drink of orange juice and makes him wait for a reply.

“She’s not a slave.” Ivar states simply.

Harald looks up from the fire at the new king of Kattegat. “What is she then?”

Ivar takes some time to think over an answer. She is not fit to be a slave, frightens like a field mouse at anyone’s touch, yet he sees steel when he looks at her. Her mere presence brings a chill to the air and her words, though few and softly spoken, echo in his ears.

Ivar doesn’t know why he brought her here. He took her from that place because he saw something of himself in her; her rage, her patience, her anguish, but now she’s here, he has no idea what she’s meant to do.

“A prize.” He settles, hoping his companions leave it at that. “Have the scouts reported back?” he looks to Harald. He wouldn’t trust his brother with the information. Not when Ivar knows where Hvitserk’s loyalty truly lies.

Harald shakes his head. “Nothing yet. Only a small group made it off the battlefield, they moved faster than we anticipated.”

Ivar rubs his jaw in frustration. He doesn’t have the time to deal with this. He has to negotiate with their uncle and find the traitors. He has no one to rely on here, and maybe that is his own fault, to an extent.

He surrounds himself with allies with mutual interests, always one thing in exchange for another, and no true good will in between. At least ambition is a reliable motivator.

They discuss the smaller details and minutiae of kingship for hours. Ivar wonders what is taking Sansa so long to return. White Hair would have made sure she got back in one piece at least, but the long absence is making him suspicious. White Hair shared his misgivings about Sansa privately, but Ivar told him off and the man is nothing if not a good soldier.

Later in the afternoon, the guards stationed outside the Great Hall call out in alarm. “Halt!”

Wondering who it could be and looking for any excuse to step out of the meeting, Ivar stands and heads to the doors. Hvitserk takes it as a cue to lean back on his chair and begin falling asleep and Harald is just about curious enough to follow the new king.

The streets outside are crowded, but instead of the average hustle and bustle of a successful trading port, people whisper behind their palms and look away in fear.

He can see Sansa’s flame colored hair making its way to the Great Hall slowly. People leave a wide berth where she steps for some reason. He gestures at his guards to break up the crowds. It won’t do to have his newest prize swallowed by the crowd.

They are able to approach her, but even they keep their distance as they escort her to the entrance.

She is dirty and the robes she had been given are ripped by the legs. There is blood on her hands, and she seems to be in shock. In her right hand, she carries a sharp bone shard which Ivar assumes is the reason no one will approach her.

She looks half-mad and Ivar feels his heart lurch with worry. Only a day in his belonging and she’s been ruined.

In his distraction about her appearance, he nearly misses the gargantuan wolf behind her. It stalks forward behind her, nudging her shoulder to keep her going. It looks grizzly and is obviously scarred in some places.

All in all, a very frightening shadow for a beautiful lady to have. Makes more sense now how people were drawing back in fear.

She stands in front of him now and does that weird almost-kneeling thing in front of him again. “My lord Ivar.”

He takes some time to stand at full height, his crutch more a necessity today than during that last battle. “Sansa.” She smiles a little when the giant wolf stands beside her. When seated on its haunches, it is slightly taller than her.

_Those are very large teeth._

She doesn’t seem to be afraid of it, but the rest of Kattegat does not share the sentiment, Ivar and Harald included.

“Who is your new friend?” Ivar asks, extending a hand to the beast’s snout. He stops when he hears the low growl emanating from its chest. Sansa reaches a hand up to its head to calm it and miraculously it does.

She averts her eyes when she answers. “A symbol of my House, my Lord. A direwolf.”

Sansa is thankful for the fierce reminder of home she has been given in this strange land. She strokes its chest gratefully and its paw lifts a little in response. Correction, his paw lifts a little in response.

Her new companion is no Lady. Nothing and no one could ever replace her sweet Lady, but she feels like he is a piece of home, nonetheless.

Ivar grows tired of the spectacle and ushers her indoors. Her giant wolf follows, but Harald does not follow them. He stands at the doors, ready to leave.

“Careful, young Lothbrok. If you are truly a son of Odin, then you should know the role Fenrir has in his death.” Harald warns good-naturedly.

Ivar shakes his head. “I know my stories, old man.”

Sansa keeps her head low through the exchange and her direwolf walks beside her. “Is that your name then?” She whispers. “Fenrir?”

His ear twitches in response and Sansa takes that as affirmation. The new name does not fit comfortably in her mouth, but it suits him.

Ivar sits himself on his throne and turns to her. “Now, care to explain what you’ve been up to, Sansa?”

Sansa gulps and kneels by the base of the throne, ready to receive punishment in place of Fenrir for killing a man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I killed White Hair to increase Hali's chances of survival in the long run.


	3. Chapter 3

_ KATTEGAT _

Ivar looks at her questioningly when she kneels by the base of his throne. Maybe it is once of her strange customs, but he won’t complain, relishing in his authority as he does.

Sansa hesitates, not knowing where to start. Mentioning her adventures outside of the city might imply she was trying to run away, which she wasn’t, not really.

Her new captor grows impatient with the silence but doesn’t lash out like Joffrey used to. Instead, his face grows steadily mroe pinched and his posture straightens. The message behind the behavior is clear.

_Do not make me ask a second time._

Sansa takes a deep, steadying breath and opens her mouth to begin. “My lord, I-I was simply exploring-“

“Beyond the city walls, hm?” he interrupts.

Sansa swallows the retort and takes another deep breath. “Yes, my Lord. I was familiarizing myself with the new environment and wanted to see what lay beyond your lands.”

Ivar scoffs but lets her continue.

Sansa reminds herself not to lose her composure at the disrespect. She’s endured worse. At least she isn’t being beaten by guards or actively threatened with a giant crossbow while a crowd titters and gossips.

“My Lord, truly, I didn’t mean for-“ She hesitates as the arm ring in her hand grows colder by the second. “I’m sorry your man died, but please, I beg of you, don’t harm Fenrir.”

He leans forward onto his legs out of curiosity to watch as Sansa squeezes her eyes shut and allows only a few tears to fall. The memory of Lady’s unjust death forever in her memory.

“Fenrir, is it?”

Sansa opens her eyes at the strange question but keeps her chin tinted low, gaze on the ground in front of her. Lady’s bones were laid to rest in the crypts. She and Fenrir would not get the same treatment here, because they will surely have to take him over her dead body.

Sansa nods her head in response to his question but does not continue.

“And did _Fenrir_ kill my most loyal soldier?”

Sansa flinches, ready to beg for Fenrir’s life to be spared in exchange for a punishment she will bear. “Yes, my Lord.” She presents the bloodied arm ring to him with shaking hands. He extends his hand to her, so she stands gracefully and walks toward him to hand it over.

Instead of taking the arm ring, he grasps her wrist and Sansa’s entire body tenses further. His hands cradle her own as he turns them around, examining them. The arm ring nearly falls as her grip loosens at the gentle treatment, but Sansa bites her lip to stay silent.

Sansa reminds herself to breathe a little, even as she looks to her feet as the weight of his gaze settles on her face. He takes the arm ring from her and puts it on the table next to him.

Still rubbing his thumbs over her pale knuckles, he raises her hand to his lips and gives it a lingering kiss. Sansa resists the urge to withdraw her hand and instead looks at him curiously. Two sets of blue eyes meet. One pair filled with fear, curiosity, confusion, and the other shining with a surprising amount of tenderness.

“There is nothing to fear here, Sansa. I will protect you.” He repeats his declaration from the other night into her closed fist. “Even from my own wrath and better sense.”

“Why?”, Sansa isn’t able to stop herself from asking.

He chuckles even as he lowers her hand. “In truth, I don’t know.”

Disappointment and relief battles inside of her. On one hand, it’s a relief that her new captor doesn’t truly want to take anything from her, but it brings its own fear about her lack of security.

The disappointment is as confusing as it is instinctual. Something to pick apart later after she is sure neither her life nor Fenrir’s is in danger.

Ivar lets her go completely and eyeballs the hulking wolf behind her. “Go get yourself cleaned up, Sansa.”

Sansa steps away from him and curtsies as she heads into the rooms at the back, passing a knocked out Hvitserk dozing in his seat on the way there.

Ivar sits a while longer as the wolf lingers. Waiting for something? He doesn’t know.

“Look after her, dog.”

Fenrir growls at him, but Ivar is not afraid. The wolf would have mauled him if he thought Ivar presented any true threat to its master. As it stands, they are the most dangerous things in this city, but neither of them are a threat to Sansa.

_ KATTEGAT-NIGHT _

Sansa tries not to think about the indignity of bathing in a stream like a child or a commoner. In truth, with all the guards that had accompanied her and had their back turned, it was a very private endeavour.

The dinner was no lavish feast that night, instead the hall remained mostly silent as she chewed on some bread and roast lamb, feeding Fenrir choice pieces off her plate. Hvitserk spoke only into his mug of ale, taking large gulps and needing to gesture a server over every few minutes to refill it.

King Harald eats quickly and with purpose. Only chuckling over Sansa feeding Fenrir and the moony gaze he catches Ivar shooting at her when she isn’t paying attention.

_The boy is smitten and he doesn’t even realize it._

Harald is determined to watch how this entire thing will play out. The dynamic is not necessarily healthy for either party, but it serves as good entertainment, nonetheless.

He’s sure his advice would not be welcome or heeded, not with Harald’s history with women.

Once the silent meal is concluded, Harald goes to rest his head elsewhere and Hvitserk stumbles out behind him. Sparing neither Sansa nor Ivar a parting glance.

Ivar stands with little difficulty. The severity of his ailment seems to vary from day-to-day, sometimes worse, sometimes better.

Sansa stands with him and once Fenrir is done licking scraps off the other plates, he follows them into the rooms at the back of the hall.

Ivar sits on his side of the bed and begins the painstaking process of removing his leg braces. Sansa stands by her little bureau as she sets aside the large ruby and heavier robes.

That is one welcome difference at least. Ivar provides her with any item she could need, though the local cobbler is still working on imitating her riding boots, the clothes she is provided are rich and obviously well cared for.

Sansa slips under the covers though she finds that the nights are pleasantly chill and remind her of home, she pulls them against her as a measure of modesty.

The sentiment is most obviously not shared by her bed partner as he strips down to his trousers and pulls another set of furs over himself.

Sansa does her best not to blush and discreetly scoots to the edge of the bed. Fenrir must misunderstand the gesture as her nearly falling off, because he nudges her back towards the middle of the bed and settles his large form on her side.

The bed gives an ominous creak, but otherwise is fine. Sansa chances a glance at Ivar to find him stifling a smile at her and Fenrir’s antics. Still, he makes a little more space between them so she can settle comfortably.

“It’s odd, isn’t it?” Ivar asks. Even as he stares up at the canopy as he reclines on the pillows, Sansa knows he is addressing her. “You’re more afraid of me than the beast behind you.”

Sansa sits up and faces him, unable to deal with the proximity of lying beside him. Her face nearly touching his shoulder in her previous position.

He finally looks up at her, looking around the bed as if more space will just suddenly appear. “So scared, pet?”

There it is, that cold rage that sparks in her eyes that reminds him of his own.

_That expression fits much better on a pretty face at least._

“I am not afraid.” She murmurs. “And I am no one’s pet, my Lord.”

He twists to lay on his side and face her. Sansa averts her gaze and strokes Fenrir who already snores away.

“No.” He scoffs. “Wolves are not pets.” He continues, reaching a hand out to start petting Fenrir alongside her.

“Your newest _companion_ , I wonder if you knew the stories about him.”

“Fenrir?”

“Yes. Fenrir, a demon son of Loki, the god of mischief and a witch giant. His fate is to swallow the sun.” He narrates, lying back and gesturing to the sky that lies beyond the roof of this great hall.

“On the day of Ragnarok, he will battle with the Allfather and swallow him whole.”

Sansa turns to look at him, hand pausing in its petting as it rests protectively over Fenrir’s furry scruff. “Fenrir isn’t-he wouldn’t-“

Ivar turns to look back at her. “But he already has, hasn’t he?” He reminds her, gesturing to the arm ring resting on her bureau. Sansa’s hand fists in Fenrir’s fur.

_I’ll hide him. I’ll make him run._

“In revenge,” He continues. “one of Odin’s sons rips him in half from muzzle to tail and stabs him in the heart.”

_No one is going to hurt him. I won’t let them, not this time._

“Isn’t that what they say about you, my Lord?” She plays stupid. “That you and your brothers are descended from the god, Odin.”

Ivar sist up as well to be eye-to-eye with her; lets her stew in silence and tension to see whether the veneer of ignorance will crack. It does not. He crooks a finger under her chin to have her truly look him in the eye, unsatisfied with her gaze resting ambiguously on his cheekbones as some kind of cop out.

She flinches away from his touch and leans further over Fenrir’s sleeping body.

Ivar does not allow it, nudging her face back to look at him, truly look at him, when he answers. “Yes, that is what they say. That I and my father and my brother are descendants of Odin, and that we have divine right to conquest and power.”

Sansa grabs his wrist, whispering. “Please, don’t.”

Her eyes shut so tightly so the hand that caresses her cheek comes as a complete surprise. “I doubt it will be the crippled descendant of Odin that was left out to die that kills the fabled beast, dear.”

Still, Sansa keeps her gaze averted.

Ivar only crooks his head to the side, honestly confused about her lack of belief in him. “Perhaps that act of stupidity and subservience used to work on your previous captors. Perhaps that was the only thing you could do to stay safe.”

The grip on his wrist gets tighter and he can feel her nails start to dig in.

“I couldn’t ever believe that about you. And do you know why, hm?” Ivar asks. “Hm?”

The finger under her chin turns into a firm grip on her face. “Ask me, Sansa. Ask me why.”

Sansa turns fearful eyes on him and stutters out the question. “Why, my Lord?”

Her face is released and he leans in to whisper in her ear. Sansa pushes on his bare chest with her free hand and that is enough to stop him from leaning further but he is still unbearable close. “Because you and I, dear. We’re the same. Underestimated, **_weak_**.” He spits out the words. “But cleverer than any of them can imagine.”

At his last words, Sansa finally looks at him, surprised at his admissions. She shakes her head.

_No, he’s a liar just like everyone who came before. Like Joffrey and Cersei and Baelish and Olenna._

“I’m a stupid girl with stupid dreams who never learns, my Lord.” She murmurs.

“I’ll hear none of that, sweet girl.” Ivar interrupts. “Not even from you.”

Ivar lies back and gestures for her to do the same. They lay like that for some time, the candles slowly dwindle into darkness as neither can find sleep. It’s about as awkward as you can imagine.

“I think I deserve a story, sweet girl.” Ivar whispers into the air above them. “I did share one with you after all.”

Against her better judgment, Sansa opens her mouth to begin. “Brandon the Builder was one of the first Stark kings of the North, so titled for building the Wall...”

Sansa doesn’t know when she stops talking, only that one second she’s lying in bed between a direwolf and a man, then the next second she’s sitting across the table from a blonde man with an oud and strangely styled hair.

Hvitserk sits in a chair looking much better than he usually does and a handsome man with very long hair sits beside him. A sharp and grating ringing sounds in her head and it narrows her vision to just the man across her. She doesn’t even feel the axe in her hand, doesn’t feel it fly out of her hands.

Only sees it embed its blade into the blonde man’s chest as the ringing in her head subsides and her heartbeat replaces it as it slows little by little.

“No! Oh gods no!”

Sansa forces her eyes shut and when her heartbeat returns to normal, she allows them to open again.

Sansa finds herself lying on the wrong side of the bed next to a pretty blonde woman who stares up at her in adoration. Only, when the woman leans in to press an adoring kiss to her lips, her hair turns red and her face changes completely until Sansa is looking at her own face, freckles and all.

The expression is completely alien. Other Sansa looks up at her with a pure adoration that belongs on a much younger, less scarred face.

Sansa forces her eyes shut once again and feels the soft touch of lips on her own. Not like Joffrey’s wormy lips at all, or Petyr’s minty breath that always makes her nauseous; the lips that touch hers are gentle and searching.

Sansa’s eyes open in surprise and it takes her a while to re-orient herself after finding herself on the other side of the bed. Ivar sits across from her, raising a hand to cradle her face while he kisses her when he cries out in pain and looks down at his chest.

A knife is sunk deep into the flesh of his chest and Sansa’s hand rests on the handle incriminatingly. Blood seeps from the wound and onto their furs as he looks up at her with the most betrayed face she has ever seen.

“No! Oh gods no no no no.”

“Sansa?”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!”

The scene ends abruptly and Ivar jolts awake. He sits up slowly, palpating his chest and making sure there is not, in fact, a knife there.

He looks to his left to see Sansa sleeping deeply and Fenrir beside her lies awake and looking at him. His eyes reflect light and gleam, looking like two menacing gems in the dark.

Sansa mumbles in her sleep and he can’t catch most of it. “...Please... so sorry.” She whimpers.

It makes something tug at his chest. After a final check to make sure he hasn’t been stabbed, he lies back down towards her and hols the hand she keeps on top of the pillow, murmuring sweet reassurances into it.

“It’s alright, sweet girl. It’s alright.”

Unfortunately, when Ivar’s dream ends, Sansa doesn’t wake up with him. Instead, she is trapped in some sort of limbo where everything is dark, and the pressure squeezes down on her from all sides making it hard to breathe.

Her ears feel like they are about to pop, and the unrelenting darkness heightens her other senses. Her throat is so parched that every breath makes a gasping and raspy sound as if to discourage her from breathing let alone speaking but speak she does with words and a voice that are not her own.

_“Your chariot lies as broken as your legs.”_

Ivar’s voice cuts through the darkness but look around as she might, she can’t spot him in the darkness.

_“I am the god Ivar.”_

Sansa feels her throat begin to constrict as words lift from her lungs like spirits. _“Oh, all things are dark. We shall all, all of us go into the dark. No!”_

The words are chilling, but any more is cut off by a sharp and blinding headache that erupts from the centre of her forehead, radiating toward one eye. It takes a while, but Sansa soon registers the warm dripping of blood from the epicentre of the headache.

She screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dreamwalker yes i did. the dog sleeps on the bed, honey. Adjust.


	4. Chapter 4

_ KATTEGAT _

The morning in Kattegat opens with the sound of crowing roosters, the smithy opening, fisherfolk leaving for their morning catch, and Sansa waking up screaming.

Ivar wakes up with a heavy weight on top of his chest. It isn’t a continuation of his dreams as he opens his eyes not to see Sansa’s radiant features, but the snarling, drooling face of her pet beast instead.

Ivar pats the side of the bed for his knife, but before he can attempt to get Fenrir off him, Sansa pushes the wolf off herself.

“Fenrir, no!”

The large canine looks at her crying face curiously, wondering what is happening to his person. Fenrir cocks his head to Ivar—who sits up as slowly and carefully and non-threateningly as possible—as if to ask: _“isn’t it his fault?”._

Sansa collapses on his chest and sobs at him, unrecovered from all the events in her dreams. Ivar wraps one arm around her in a half-hug and pats her head comfortingly albeit awkwardly.

“There, there, sweet girl.” He coos. He remembers his mother used to do this for him as well when he’d wake up from the pain of his broken legs. “There, there.”

Sansa wipes her eyes and pushes herself back up to apologize for her lack of decorum. “I-I’m so sorry, my Lord.” She sniffles and stutters through.

“It’s fine, sweet one.” He reassures, sitting up and wiping the mixture of drool and tears from his chest with the furs. “Perhaps next time you adopt a pet, we can just get you a cat instead, hm?”

Fenrir looks offended at the suggestion and whines pitifully at the couple still in the bed. Sansa can’t help herself. She laughs wetly and messily, not at all like a lady.

Fenrir continues whining, offended at the lack of opposition from his person’s part. He climbs back onto the bed, over Ivar who loses his breath as the hulking dog insistently snuggles up to his mistress.

Sansa presses her face into the messy and matted fur of his scruff. “Don’t worry, Fenrir. I wouldn’t trade you for a cat. You’re a good boy.”

Ivar rolls his eyes and pushes Fenrir’s wagging tail away from his face. The wolf seemingly smacking him in the face on purpose based on the smug look (can animals even have smug looks?) Fenrir shoots him from beyond Sansa’s line of sight.

Ivar rolls up into a full sitting position, leaving the girl and her dog to their moment while he puts on his leg braces.

Sansa looks up when she hears the sound of rustling netting to see Ivar leave the room. Still embarrassed about her earlier break down, she looks the other way to stop herself from calling out to him again and making a bigger fool of herself.

_ CLIFFS _

Sansa finishes her honeyed oats and fruits quickly, wanting to get as far away from Ivar as possible today. Fenrir leads her up to the cliffs where he runs around for a while, chasing fat and fluffy field hares in the damp grass.

Sansa takes in the view, the fog, and the smell of soon-to-come frost. She had brought a bone comb with her to work through the tangles in Fenrir’s fur but thought it best to let him expend his energy with a hunt and a meal first.

As Fenrir lops away, a sudden silence comes upon the cliffs. Sansa looks behind her as a mysterious hooded figure approaches her. He chews on something from his left hand while the other holds a tall and dirty walking stick.

Sansa stands to leave.

 _Fenrir!_ She calls in her mind, hoping that the wolf will hear her and come as soon as he can.

She doesn’t notice the strange stillness that blankets the area, how the clouds stop moving and the grass stops swaying in the wind.

The man keeps walking toward her at a sedate pace. He’s close enough for her to see his features more clearly now.

She is able to stem the gasp that nearly escapes her at what she does see. His eyes, or rather the place where his eyes should be, is made of wrinkled and scarred skin. There are no empty sockets and Sansa isn’t sure whether or not that would be worse to look upon. His lips are blackened, and his teeth stained the same hue.

The food he had been eating wriggles as it tries to escape his fist. Maggots, Sansa realizes, he’s eating maggots. The very idea makes her nauseous and her light breakfast threatens to come back up.

“Dreamwalker,” He calls to her. “girl of many gods.”

His raspy and gasping voice is familiar to her, but she can’t place it exactly.

“Giant killer.” He growls out. “Ragnarok courts you. You bring death and ruination with you.”

Every time he speaks, Sansa feels her throat dry and want to heave. He ends up right in front of her. His whispers now are too quick and low to catch. Sansa wants to push him away, stab him with her bone knife, command Fenrir to rip his throat out, do anything to stop him, but she can’t. She freezes where she stands, even as his cold and unrelenting grasp shackles her forearms and brings her forward to meet his lips with her own.

The smell is of decay and cold earth. It tastes of death and what feels like wormy maggots try to enter her clamped lips.

Sansa feels the life and will come back into her limbs, pushing him away from her. She can’t make herself feel bad as he falls onto the ground, gasping and laughing.

Sansa runs into the woods and back to the city, meeting up with Fenrir on the way there who nudges her forward from behind. When she trips over an exposed root, Fenrir catches her on his back and Sansa grabs onto his fur for dear life.

Fenrir bounds through the trees, taking Sansa further and further away from Kattegat until the woods end abruptly to the site of rolling hills. There is what looks to be an abandoned house there that Fenrir takes her towards.

He stops by the animal pens. The place has been abandoned, but not as recently as what Sansa first assumed. There are foot tracks all over the place, and fire pits that still faintly smell of smoke.

Sansa hears a manic whisper from the pig pen

“Ubbe betrayed me. Ubbe and Torvi, that whore, the both of them!”

Sansa comes upon and shaking figure whose hair is so filthy, she could hardly believe it used to be blonde. The eye that peeks out at her from behind the curtain of hair is green, the pupil so constricted it would nearly disappear.

Sansa opens the pen and heads over to help her. She takes her rope-bound hands in hers and brings out her bone knife to cut through it.

“Freya? Have you come to take me from here?” The crazed woman asks. Her entire body shakes and trembles enough to rattle her bones.

Sansa doesn’t answer her queries, concentrated on cutting through the bonds without harming the shaking woman.

When that is done, Sansa helps her stand and though she flinches back at the sight of Fenrir, she walks back to Kattegat with them.

“What is your name?”

“My name?” The blonde asks. “They-they called me Margrethe.”

Sansa isn’t so comfortable with how the woman clutches at her. It makes it a bit difficult to walk but Sansa leans on Fenrir for extra support.

“Thank you, Freya. Thank you.” She mutters, her eyes unfocused and looking up to the sky as she stumbles along.

_ KATTEGAT _

Sansa and her charge find their way back to Kattegat long after the sun has set thanks to their stumbling pace. People still point and stare at Fenrir and herself, but at least the streets are less crowded.

No guards greet her at the entrance to the Great Hall, so Sansa pushes the doors open herself. Ivar sits on his throne, Hvitserk sits in front of him at the long table set up there. They both look up at the noise. Ivar doesn’t notice Sansa’s companion at first, too relieved at seeing her back again in one piece.

“If you keep coming back late, I might just be forced to set a curfew for your escapades.” Ivar quips.

Sansa blushes and curtsies with a wince, she has been on her feet for quite some time today. “I defer to your judgment, my Lord.”

Ivar smirks into his ale horn and Hvitserk walks over to the entering party. “Margrethe?”

The woman Sansa has brought along looks to Ivar’s older brother and her face crumples in relief. “Hvitserk!”

She runs toward him and launches herself at him, not minding the painful and bloody sores on her feet from the journey, nor her soiled and unkempt appearance.

Ivar shakes his head in annoyance and snorts derisively at the display. The noise causes Margrethe to look over at him and she once again begins whimpering and shaking in fear, remembering the man’s attempt on her life.

Hvitserk holds her to him more tightly and turns her away from his brother. “It’s okay. I won’t hurt you.”

“Where did you find her?” Hvitserk asks the redhead who has sat herself upon the foot of the throne, petting her tired beast.

Sansa looks up at the sweet pair and answers the question as well as she can remember. “Fenrir brought me to an abandoned farm house, out beyond the woods. She was tied up and shaking, my Lord, so I thought it best to bring her here for help.”

Ivar leans his chin on a closed fist, bored with the developments already and unhappy with the lack of attention he is getting.

Hvitserk sits back down and cradles Margrethe to his chest, offering her some ale and food. “What happened, Margrethe? Where is Ubbe?”

Ivar’s interest is piqued, but Sansa had said the farmhouse she found the madwoman in was abandoned. Additionally, one can never trust intelligence from a woman so obviously mad, possibly possessed by some evil spirit.

“Ubbe left me.” She cries at his brother. “He and that bitch Torvi betrayed me and left me to rot!” She near yells, a deranged look entering her eyes.

Hvitserk stays calm and shushes her again so that she may hear his next questions. “Where did they go, Margrethe?”

“I-I don’t know, Hvitserk.” She stutters.

Realizing they would not get anything from her that day and unwilling to fight his brother when he inevitably sets Margrethe off, Hvitserk stands to leave and take her home to care for.

Once it is just them in the hall, Ivar turns to Sansa to ask. “Why is it that every time you find your way out of these halls, you have to bring back a new friend?”

Sansa bites her lip but cannot completely keep the smile from her face at his jokingly exasperated question. She continues running her fingers through Fenrir’s fur. She should like to give him a bath tomorrow to try and loosen the more stubborn knots.

Ivar stands from his throne and extends the hand not holding his crutch to her. She stands with his assistance and allows him to lead her back to their rooms.

Fenrir continues dozing by the throne, his hind leg kicking back as he dreams. Sansa decides to let him sleep, best he be in a good mood tomorrow for his bath and grooming.

“Who is Ubbe?” Sansa plucks up her courage to ask. Ivar leans more heavily into his crutch at the next step, but he doesn’t withdraw from her immediately.

Ivar sighs heavily as soon as they make it past the netting, sitting himself down in the chair that faces the bed rather than on the bed itself. Sansa sits in front of him, their knees nearly meeting at the proximity.

“Ubbe was my big brother.” Ivar says after a while. “But he abandoned me. He left me behind and he allied himself with the murderous bitch that killed our mother, _Lagertha._ ” He spits out the name like a foul taste.

“What happened to him?” Sansa probes gently.

Ivar leans back into his seat, thinking over the answer for a while more. “He ran.” Ivar murmurs. “There was a war for Kattegat. We won. Now, he-along with the usurpers-are gone; ran like the cowards they are and no doubt hoping to reclaim my father’s throne.”

Sansa knows not to push further, even though she very much wants to. She’ll be here for a while yet and she has time to unravel their stories, their ambitions.

Sansa pats him on the knee awkwardly. “Thank you for telling me.” She stands and heads to the bureau to start readying for bed.

Her hands hesitate at removing her robes. They’re filthy, but Sansa isn’t sure she should sleep in just her shift when she shares her bed with a man. Fenrir isn’t there to act as buffer either.

Sansa leaves the robe on, removing her brooch and braid instead, then heads to bed.

_ KATTEGAT-MORNING _

Sansa can’t recall the dreams of the night before, and for that she is thankful. Sleep was merciful darkness and silence after her tiring escapades from the day before.

Her waking is not so peaceful.

Ivar’s pained yell is what wakes her up. Sansa shoots up in bed as Ivar holds a knife threateningly to a man’s throat. Sensing his master’s distress, Fenrir bounds into the room to stand threateningly in front of her.

Ivar’s servant trembles through his apology. “F-forgive me, my King.”

The man being addressed grits his teeth to ride out the rest of the pain. The haze of red that comes over his vision could be from pain or rage. He isn’t sure how to differentiate those two anymore.

Fenrir’s low growl is a reminder of just who is witnessing this, and Ivar lowers his knife from the man’s throat. “No more mistakes.” He grits out. “Understood?”

The man nods in fear.

“Get out.” Ivar commands. An order the man follows enthusiastically. He rushes from the room as if Fenrir were on his heels.

“Are you alright?” Sansa asks from behind him.

Ivar shakes his head slowly, doing his best to tamp down the urge to snap at her.

_No! I just yell out in pain when I am perfectly fine._

He takes a few deep breaths and nods without looking back at her.

The netting that the servant displaces reveals a pair of curious bright green eyes. He’d remember those eyes anywhere and suddenly he’s transported back to that makeshift throne room in York where he first met those eyes.

With the recent burden of ruling, being at odds with his brother, and Sansa’s arrival, he hasn’t been able to really think of that slave girl he freed.

“Don’t just stand there. Come in.” He beckons. Sansa pulls the furs up higher and Fenrir flops down in the middle of the bed to drool on Ivar’s pillows.

_Well-played, dog._

He’ll have those sent to Hvitserk while he gets a new set.

The strange blonde enters the room and stands in front of him serenely. Her gaze wanders from him to the wolf, and the girl behind him.

“Sit.” Ivar stands, offering her one of the seats at the foot of the bed. “How is freedom treating you?”

She sets herself down daintily. Her unwavering gaze staring beyond him and on the pair still in the bed.

She draws her attention back to him and answers his question. “Surprisingly lonely.”

Ivar feels his pulse race in excitement at her answer and sits opposite her as Sansa stands and hurries through readying herself for the day. He’s not used to her particular brand of feminine attention.

“What do you mean?” He prods. “Surely, a beauty such as you is already married?”

She shakes her head fondly as she accepts the cup of water he offers her. “No, I am not married.” She starts. “I live alone.”

Sansa tries to pull Fenrir from the room with her, but her companion is being more obstinate than usual today and only responds to her attempts by rolling onto his back and asking for belly rubs.

Freydis looks at the scene by the bed with mischievous eyes. “I like it that way.” Ivar feels his hopes plummet.

Sansa realizes that her lack of interaction with the arrival may seem rude, so she leaves Fenrir on the bed and takes a seat across their visitor, leaving a considerable space between her and Ivar.

Ivar smirks at Sansa’s frazzled appearance. His precious prize is many mysterious things, but an early riser she is not.

He passes her a cup of water as well as he makes the introductions.

“Sansa, this is...” _Crap, he doesn’t actually know her name._

“Freydis.” She fills in for him.

Ivar clears his throat. “Yes, Freydis; a slave I freed in York.” He turns to the blonde who stares at Sansa with a kind of wonder in her eyes. Ivar can understand that initial reaction. “Freydis, this is Sansa.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you.” Sansa greets.

“I am happy to have met you.” Freydis beams. “The Gods have marked the both of you out among all others.”

Ivar scoffs and leans back into his seat.

 _It truly feels like it._ He thinks sarcastically. “I find that a little hard to believe at times.” He says, gesturing to his still aching legs from that servant’s clumsy attentions.

“Look at all you have already accomplished.” She insists. “Ivar, the Boneless, is a God.” She declares it with the kind of conviction that makes it hard to disagree with, so he doesn’t.

“Why are you here, Freydis?” He asks instead.

“I go where the Gods command, and this day, they told me to go to you.” She replies sunnily.

“Well, as one of those Gods, I must now command you to allow me a few moments to gain my bearings and ready for the day, hm?” Ivar orders, only half-jokingly.

Freydis smiles blankly and does as she is bid. Sansa sips from slowly from her cup as the strange woman goes.

“What do you think, little prize?” Ivar turns to her suddenly.

“My Lord?”

“Do you think she speaks the truth?” Ivar clarifies.

Sansa hesitates for a while. She is a terrible liar, Petyr Baelish said so himself, and something tells her that she can be honest with this man, that he will not hurt her. The same something that stayed her hand from attacking Fenrir when she first met him. She listens.

“Gods have no mercy.” Sansa says, remembering Cersei chidingly saying it to her once. “That’s why they’re gods.”

Ivar shakes his head. “Then maybe Ivar, the Boneless, is a god.” He mumbles.

At her confused look, he feels the need to confess his many sins at her feet and hurry the destruction of her opinion of him along.

She thinks well of him yet. He dreads yet anticipates the day he inevitably ruins that.

“I am not a good man, Sansa.”

Sansa shakes her head and grabs his hand fiercely, looking into his bright blue eyes as she insists something of her own that he desperately wants to believe.

“You are to me.”


End file.
